


Day 8: Unsent/Unread

by likethedirection



Series: Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge 2016 [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, I tried really hard to make this less sad but it refused, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Letters, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:06:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7576903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethedirection/pseuds/likethedirection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the fourth time he's written this letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 8: Unsent/Unread

**Author's Note:**

> I've given up completely on posting anything in order, as life insists on being incredibly busy right now, but here's this! It is fine as a standalone, but it can also function as a more canon-compliant parallel universe to my work in progress, [Corpus Callosum](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6240871/chapters/14298973). Also, beware of angst.
> 
> Written for the [Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge](http://sincerelyjimlock.tumblr.com/post/146926763135/sheriarty-30-day-challenge) on Tumblr. :)

_To Mr William Sherlock Scott Holmes on the Occasion of His Thirteenth Birthday:_

_Cheers._

_M_  

It’s the fourth time he’s written this letter.  The first gave away too much; the second was too boring.  The third was almost right, nothing wrong with it, really, but he changed his mind at the last moment and threw it in the fire.

He could send this one.  Send it, and maybe, just maybe, William Sherlock Scott Holmes will write him back.  This boy who’s like him, who’s just like him, who sees the right things and asks the right questions, will figure out that it’s Carl’s murderer writing to him, and he won’t be scared.  He’ll solve the little puzzle Jim included with the letter, work out the address where a reply should be mailed.  Maybe they’ll meet, and Jim will be able to look him in the eye.  Maybe William Sherlock Scott Holmes will look back at him, and _see_ him.

Jim automatically glances in the mirror as he turns to pace back across the room, and he pauses mid-step.  He takes himself in, and imagines what this other boy might note.  He’s gone and lost weight again, not on purpose.  The bags under his eyes haven’t quite gone away after his last episode, his wrists still chafed where Da’s belt held them together, ‘so you won’t bloody hurt yourself again.’  His shirt is the wrong size, starting to come apart at the seam.

His mind is impressive, but he is not.  Not yet.  William Sherlock Scott Holmes might see him, perhaps.  More likely, he’ll see a poor, beaten, puny immigrant boy who’s not quite right in his head.

Biting his lip, Jim turns away from the mirror.  He puts the addressed envelope in a drawer - so he’ll have a reference for the calligraphy style when it’s the right time to _really_ write him - and walks away.

-

 _To Mr Sherlock Holmes on the Occasion of His Sixteenth Birthday:_  

_I hate school.  Do you?  Are your teachers like mine, talking down to you, sneering at you, sending you to detention just because you were right and they were wrong?  Are your classmates like mine, so fucking dull, just a bunch of empty heads wandering about thinking they’ve won just because they kicked you a few times?_

_There are no real people here.  I wish we were at the same school.  You’re real, I know you are._

_Do you know what’s funny?  If you look closely enough, you can find out the nastiest secrets about the empty heads, and if you let them know you know, they’ll do all sorts of things for you.  Hold the right secret over their head, and you own them.  Do you do that?  I bet you don’t.  But you could._

_One day, I’ll write you.  I’ll really write you, send it and everything.  But not yet.  I’m not quite right yet.  You are, though.  I’ve seen you once or twice, even though you haven’t seen me.  You’re rather lovely.  I bet no one tells you that.  But you are._

_I’m doing something, you know.  Planning something.  It’ll be rather clever.  I think you’d like it.  One parent can still be one too many, don’t you think?_

_Sincerely,_

_M_

His teacher almost catches him writing it, but he distracts her with a few ways she’s failing at her job.  Detention is a relief.  He speaks to no one, goes home, gets slapped for causing trouble at school again, and locks himself in his room to take a breath.  He paces for a bit, chewing a fingernail.  Then he pulls out the letter, opens up his drawer, and adds it to the pile.

-

He pens this letter in an empty house.

_To Mr Sherlock Holmes on this Christmas Day, 1995:_

_Went to his funeral the other day.  Waited till everyone had gone, and pissed on his grave.  Mum was there, too, before that part.  She shouted and shouted.  “You’ve done this.  You’ve killed him, somehow, you’ve killed him.  I still see it in you, the Devil, the Serpent, nothing in you but filth,” blah, blah, blah.  Luckily for me, she made me look downright sane, so no one thought much of it._

_How is Cambridge?  I’m thinking of going to university after all.  Never really saw the point, but I’m starting to consider that it may yet have its uses.  University is where powerful people go before they’re powerful.  Better to get a head start, wouldn’t you say so?_

_I hope I haven’t ruined you.  I’ve written you so many letters, as if you were ever going to see them.  I hope the you that I imagine isn’t so far removed from what you really are that the two wouldn’t recognize each other._

_I dream about you sometimes, you know.  I don’t know what your voice sounds like, so I can never hear you, but I see you.  Such adventures we have, you and me.  Once I even dreamed about kissing you.  I didn’t want to wake up from that one.  I broke things when I woke up._

_I wonder if it would bother you, that sort of thing.  I don’t think it would.  You’re better than that.  You’re so much better._

_You won’t read this, but look after yourself, Sherlock.  Every glimpse I get of you, you’re alone.  Like me.  But I promise you, one day we won’t be._

_Cheers,_

_M_

-

He almost doesn’t keep this letter.  The paper is crumpled, full of puncture wounds where he pressed too hard, barely legible at all.

_I hate it I hate it I hate it there is no point there has never been ANY POINT why should we even be here why should we ever_

_We weren’t supposed to be here, Sherlock, I know we weren’t.  This place isn’t for us, this world isn’t for us, they made it for someone else and it’s broken like everything is broken_

_YOU ARE BROKEN.  Stop the fucking drugs, I see them ruining you.  Don’t you DARE leave me just because you snorted too much fucking powder, don’t you EVER_

_Don’t you dare leave me here.  Don’t you dare.  Don’t leave me.  don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t d_

_I’m broken too.  Can’t think.  If I take this pen off this page I’m going to kill myself.  I can’t breathe.  If you were here you’d help me breathe, wouldn’t you, say you would_

_Fuck fuck fuck FUCK I need to be okay, we need to be okay, Sherlock, you and me.  I could make something happen.  Something that’ll scare you out of your stupid fucking drug habit, and if you start being okay, I can start being okay, too.  But right now I need to scream.  Is that why you do it, because you need to scream and no one’ll fucking let you?_

_I’d let you scream, if you had to, you know I would let you.  We could scream together.  Deafen the world.  Fuck I can’t breathe.  It’s too fast too fast too fast toofasttoofasttoofa_

_We can’t meet like this, when we’re broken, but we’ll fix each other, won’t we?  We’ll scream and we’ll fix each other.  Maybe you’ll kiss me.  Maybe you’ll let me kiss you.  I want to kiss you._

_I can’t I need to stop I won’t kill myself I promise not until I’ve met you.  I will meet you.  When I’m who I’m meant to be, when I’m the man you’re meant to meet.  I promise._

He almost doesn’t keep it.  But he does.

-

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Sorry about that last one.  Was having an episode.  That's what they've always called them, Mum and Da and the doctor and the priest.  Episodes.  I hurt people when I have them, if there are people to hurt.  I'm glad you weren't here to see it.  Terribly undignified.  If this is a bit difficult to read, well, my hands are in a bit of a bad way.  Nothing to fret about._

_I wonder what you would say right now.  What you’d be thinking.  What you’d do.  I wonder if you have episodes, too._

_Anyway, I’ve started a new project.  Three, actually.  Three living, breathing people I’ve conjured out of thin air.  I can be any one of them I want, to get whatever I need.  Wait until you see my next magic trick._

_Cheers,_

_M_

He sits silently at his desk with the letter before him, head bowed and fingers digging through his hair, for a long time.  Then he takes the letter to the box he brought with him to university, places it inside, and closes the box tight.

-

_Sherlock,_

_I’m on a beach right now.  Well, nearly.  This balcony overlooks the beach.  South America.  Starting to drum up a bit of business, now that I’ve started advertising in the right places.  The sun is rising over the sea, and it’s red as blood.  I bet you could tell me the name of this exact shade.  I bet you could tell me the hex code.  One day you’ll be here with me, one day you'll read this and laugh because here we’ll be, but not today.  Not yet._

_I hear you’re in rehab.  Sounds awful, but for what it’s worth, I’m rather proud of you._

_Cheers,_

(He pauses, pen hovering over the page, prepared to form his usual capital M, but it doesn’t feel quite right.  He looks out over the sea, to where it meets the sky.  Bites his lip.  Brings the pen slowly down and carefully closes out the letter, before taking it to its box.)

_Jim_

-

Time passes.  Power grows.  People do what people do.  He spends all of his time tolerating people.  He spends all of his time alone.

_Sherlock,_

_Let’s play a game.  You read through this morning’s disasters in the paper, and work out which one was me._

_I like your blog, by the way._

_Cheers,_

_Jim_

-

_Sherlock,_

_You’ve made it into the news.  Well done, you.  You can’t imagine how long I laughed over it - Consulting Detective.  Of all the things in this awful world._

(He has to stop writing for a moment, because he’s laughing again.  Crying again.  Wanting to dance and die and scream.  It’s such a perfect story, a perfect setup, but he knows stories.  This moment is not setting the stage for a happily-ever-after.  It’s priming them all for a tragedy.)

_We may be meeting sooner than I thought.  I think about it often.  I think about you often.  It’s nice to have a recent photograph.  I’ve never met you, but I miss you, so badly I could claw my own heart out of my chest.  I want to know what you sound like, what you smell like, what you taste like.  I have an active imagination, but it’s a poor substitute.  I want you._

_I almost want to send this.  Still not a great time, though.  I’m off to China next week.  You’d be amazed what some people are willing to do for this or that pretty bit of rock._

_Yours,_

_Jim_

-

_Sherlock,_

_Nothing, really.  Just wanted to write your name._

_Yours,_

_Jim_

-

These words wobble on the page, because his hands can’t quite stop shaking.

_Sherlock,_

_I just stood in the same room with you for fifty-six seconds.  You didn’t know it was me.  That was on purpose.  You didn’t know that the walls shook, and the sky caught fire.  You didn’t know I spent every one of those fifty-six seconds trying not to touch you, just to know you’re real, that I haven’t spent all my life writing to a ghost._

_I am writing to a ghost, of course.  You haven’t seen a word.  You won’t see this, either.  I recorded our conversation with my phone.  God, your voice.  Twenty-one years and I finally hear your voice._

_I’ve finally met you.  I think it’s time that you meet me._

_Yours,_

_Jim_

-

Time passes.  Things are set into motion.  William Sherlock Scott Holmes at last, at last looks him in the eye, as he’s aiming a bullet at his brain.

He doesn’t fire.  Jim knew he wouldn’t.  (Some small part of him wishes he had.)

The following year, he is formally introduced to Sherlock’s older brother.

_My darling Sherlock,_

_Your brother is good at what he does, but he tended toward assuming I was more like you than I am.  I took it as a compliment.  His people are good at what they do, too.  This letter’s a bit after the fact, because only now are my fingers in a state to write._

_I got your big brother to tell me all about you.  It was perfect.  He has no idea that he was giving me the answers to so many questions I’ve asked you over the years.  It’s almost like you’ve written back._

_I’ve ruined you, though.  I was afraid this would happen.  I’m the villain in your story, now, the only thing I can be.  We didn’t really have any of those conversations; you’re not my lover, or my confidant, or my friend.  You’re not my anything.  You never have been._

_It’s all right, though.  I’ve got one more game for you.  Biggest one yet.  I hope you’re ready._

_Yours,_

_Jim_

-

He writes the last letter at 221B Baker Street.  He’s the only one here.  No one saw him come in except the homeless man at the corner.  He doesn't really care.

This is not home.  Not for him, but he hasn’t got one of those in the first place.  He brushes his fingers over everything that is Sherlock’s.  He smiles at the skull on the mantle.  He breathes in Sherlock’s air, a touch musty, tinted with tea and chemicals.

He takes off his shoes and settles cross-legged on Sherlock’s unmade bed, using a thick textbook as a surface, and begins to write.

_My dear Sherlock,_

_In twenty-two years, I’ve written you 220 letters.  Neat, isn’t it?  That this last letter, the one you finally see, will be number 221._

_I’d like to die with you.  You’ll find that out soon enough.  But it would mean so very much to me.  You and me, leaping into the next world together, the only together we’ll ever have.  I know better, of course.  By now you’ll have worked it out, run to big brother.  Drummed up a few grand escape plans for you, so you can live.  Because you want to live.  That’s the real difference between us._

_I’m tired, love.  So tired._

_The episodes have been coming more often, lately.  Lasting longer.  Hurting more.  I think it’s because our bodies always know better than we do.  Mine is getting restless, the way a child gets restless when he desperately needs to sleep.  I need to sleep._

_I do wish it had gone differently.  Wish I’d been braver.  Wish I’d sent you that first letter, but wishes are for fairy tales.  I bet you’ve never been much for fairy tales._

_Whatever happens after this, one of us will be gone.  So I have one last puzzle for you.  I’m sure you’ve already looked at it.  You’d look at it first.  I dare you to solve it, and work out where it leads.  There is a trunk of letters waiting for you._

_I owe you a fall, love, and that’s what I’m going to give you.  The fall of the curtain on this sparkling tragedy.  I’ll give you that.  I’ve loved you all my life.  I’ll give you that._

_Goodbye, William Sherlock Scott Holmes._

_Love always,_

_Jim_

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even like sad stories that much, you guys. This one refused to be anything but.
> 
> If you're interested in what might have happened if Jim had sent that first letter, might I direct you to my current work in progress, [Corpus Callosum](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6240871/chapters/14298973). /shamelessplug


End file.
